


When In Rinde

by Purplesauris



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blowjobs, Clothes Sharing, DONT COME AFTER ME, M/M, based on a prompt, but game geralt is svelte and he is obviously the best geralt, cavill geralt is a beast of a man, geralt's senses are wack and i want to play with them, given to me by a lovely friend, handjobs, i don't know what to write in these tags, oh it's also saucy surprise, oh it's not mentioned but buffskier is here to stay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:33:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28138488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purplesauris/pseuds/Purplesauris
Summary: Geralt ruins all of his shirts and has to borrow one of Jaskier's- if it fits.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 277





	When In Rinde

**Author's Note:**

> So this is based off of a prompt given to me by my beautiful friend Ashley (Multiplelizards) , which was just "Geralt/jaskier wearing each others clothes" and i ran with it, like a toddler with a knife

"You smell like a kikimore den." Jaskier wrinkles his nose in distaste, eyeing the green-black goo covering every inch of the sodden witcher before him. Geralt merely grunts, slipping past him as Jaskier shrinks back to avoid the worst of the mess. There's a bath waiting for him, luckily, and Geralt strips out of his armor and clothes, leaving them in a heap to be dealt with later. He sinks into the water, ignoring the way his nerves protest the heat. He spends time scrubbing at his skin, watching as the water goes murky and the lavender in the water fades. He can smell everything- the way he still reeks of the cave, the sweat clinging to Jaskier's neck as he scrubs at the guts on his armor. If he looked he could see the individual strands of Jaskier's hair, each reflecting their own color of light from the fire blazing in the hearth. That's too much, though, so he stares instead at his ruined nails and the blood crusted underneath. 

The bar of soap that's pressed into his hands is faintly fragranced, and he presses it to his nose, dragging in a breath. The absence of anything other than a hint of rosemary and orange is a welcome diversion, and he spends nearly as much time sniffing the soap as he does using it. He can still smell everything else over the soap, but with each pass over his body it lessens. The blood comes up from under his nails and soon the water is too filthy to use. Jaskier knows, though, and makes Geralt stand, naked and dripping wet while he switches out the water. He must've been paid well for his performance. He's led with gentle fingers back into the tub, eyes having closed to block out the shadows dancing dizzily in the room. This time Jaskier stays nearby, lavender and sweat and silk in his nose. Jaskier has Geralt hold his soaps, occasionally sniffing them, while he works the tangles from Geralt's hair and rinses out any guts. The smell is all but gone now, replaced by the smell of pine. It reminds him of home, makes his heart ache with the want to see his family, and he hums softly.

"That's better, love." A startlingly gentle kiss is placed on the crown of his head, and he listens as Jaskier's feet shuffle across the ground and away from him. He hears the rustle of fabric, more footsteps, and then the soft slide of their skin together as Jaskier uses a hand to guide Geralt from the tub. A towel is pressed into his hands and he dries himself quickly, Jaskier's heart a steady companion in his ears. "Do you want to eat anything?"

The thought of food has his stomach rolling, and he shakes his head in a sharp  _ no _ . Jaskier doesn't fight him at all, just places a velvety soft kiss on his shoulder and guides him into bed. Geralt sinks into the bed without much protest, listening as Jaskier tidies up the room and gets rid of the tub. He hears the door crack and Jaskier's voice, sheepish and sorry as he asks that Geralt's clothes be laundered. The door shuts with a soft click and the smell of smoke tickles at his nose, making him sneeze and shake his head. He cracks open an eye experimentally, and upon not being blinded, opens both all the way.

The candles in the room have all been blown out save for the hearth, and Jaskier navigates easily in the dark, undressing before coming to bed. He's warm and soft and achingly familiar, and Geralt pulls him close without thinking. The bard doesn't object at all though, humming a soft song. Geralt flinches when a bird flaps noisily past the small window, and Jaskier shushes him softly. "C'mere."

Geralt turns onto his side, letting Jaskier bundle him close as he rests his head on the man's chest. The sound of Jaskier's heart is a touch deafening this close, but that's the point, and Geralt focuses on the lub-dub lub-dub until the other noises fade back into the background. Pressed this close, all Geralt can smell is lavender, and it very effectively clogs his nose, allowing him yet more time to adjust his senses. It also allows sleep to pull at his limbs, and he drifts off with Jaskier hugging him close.

-*-

“What do you- Oh, oh of course. No, no thank you for trying.” Jaskier’s voice tugs him from sleep, and he shifts onto his side to see Jaskier closing the door, clothes in his arms. There’s a frown on his face and Geralt reaches out a hand automatically. Jaskier’s eyes flick up at the movement, and he smiles as he pads over, sitting on the edge of the bed and letting Geralt pet up and down his back. 

“What?” His voice is thick with sleep, and he clears his throat softly as Jaskier sighs. 

“The laundress, she couldn’t save the shirt. Something about acid?”

“Kikimore venom.” Geralt frowns, remembering that he’d been sprayed in it and glancing toward his armor. It looks fine, no worse for wear, and he faintly remembers the sound of a brush scrubbing over the hard leather. A sharp bolt of fear goes through him at the realization, and he sits up, grabbing Jaskier’s hands. His clean clothes tumble into a heap on the bed, but he’s too busy looking over the skin of Jaskier’s hands to care. 

“Geralt-” Geralt growls, peering closer at Jaskier’s skin and his nail beds. “Geralt, I’m  _ fine _ .”

“The venom-”

“Washed right off.” The panic gripping his chest fades alongside his fear, and he glances up to find Jaskier smiling, expression fond. “I know how to handle monster sludge by now.”

“Hmm.” He can feel the heat creeping up his neck from embarrassment, but Jaskier presses a kiss to his cheek, still grinning. He doesn’t say a word, but Geralt can tell that Jaskier is tickled by his worry. He lets go of Jaskier’s hands to paw through his clothes instead, finding that whoever did the washing knew what they were doing. There aren’t any holes from the venom or lingering smells. Jaskier leaves his side as he inspects his clothes, and he’s too awake now to go back to sleep, so he slips into his freshly washed clothes and goes to find his other shirt. He’s digging through his pack, elbow deep in his things when he realizes with growing annoyance that his other shirt was used as bandages when he’d come stumbling back from a fight with a wyvern. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice is curious, and Geralt grumbles, setting his pack down and reaching to rub at his forehead. Jaskier turns to him fully now, concern on his face, and Geralt tries to ignore the waver in his scent. 

“That was my last shirt.” 

“Oh.” It doesn’t seem to surprise Jaskier much, and he dips into his pack before pulling out a shirt. It’s soft and frilly and  _ white _ . Geralt doesn’t reach out to take it, frowning and shaking his head.

“I’ll ruin it.” 

Jaskier pins Geralt with a shrewd look, and Geralt reaches to take the shirt from him. He’s going to rip it just trying to put it on, but Jaskier has made up his mind. He hesitates, not wanting to ruin something of Jaskier’s, but the bard looks two seconds away from dressing Geralt himself, so he gets it over with. The shirt goes over his head easily, and he feels the fabric catch for a moment- before it slides on smoothly, loose around his shoulders and just a tad tight around his biceps. He bends his arms, flexing gently, but the fabric doesn’t rip and he looks up at Jaskier, perplexed. Jaskier is staring at him with what Geralt can only describe as  _ lust _ , and he drags in a deep breath, intoxicated by the hint of arousal already. 

“Silk looks good on you, witcher.” Jaskier steps forward, nimble fingers tucking the shirt into his pants, and Geralt should be embarrassed to be treated like a child, but there’s nothing motherly in the action. No, Jaskier’s movements scream of a predator, and he watches with helpless fascination as Jaskier loosely does the laces over his chest, shuddering when a soft kiss is left on his collarbone. The scent of Jaskier’s arousal is stronger now, heady, but he hums and goes about getting Geralt to put his armor on. Geralt is one step away from grabbing him and spending the morning in bed with the way that Jaskier keeps eying him, but soon his armor is in place and Jaskier is handing him his swords.

“Jaskier.” He rasps, throat constricting and nostrils flaring wide. Jaskier looks up at him, eyes molten, and Geralt loses his breath. “Jask-”

“We’ve ground to cover and a tailor to find. Let’s go, Geralt.” Geralt can’t deny him anything, not with his head swimming the way it is and the feel of silk pressed to his skin under his armor. He follows Jaskier out of the inn and to where Roach is stabled, tacking her and getting onto the road in record time. Jaskier seems to have calmed down some, lavender shining through, but there’s an undercurrent that Geralt finds hard to ignore. 

The shirt is near impossible to ignore- the texture is different than the simple cotton of his shirts, smoother, and he finds himself shivering whenever the shirt moves under his armor. The shirt smells like Jaskier too- and while Geralt is used to the smell, it’s close and covers his own and that does funny things to his head. He’s more distracted than he’s ever been on the road, all because of a  _ shirt _ and he stubbornly tries to block out the feel of silk and the scent of lavender. Geralt has no clue where the nearest tailor would be, but Jaskier leads them with a purpose, a small smug smile on his face the entire time. Geralt catches himself staring a few times before wrenching his gaze away, staring pointedly at his feet or some far off point in front of him. The trip between towns doesn’t take long at all, and Geralt realizes with a jolt that they’re in Rinde. 

He hasn’t been to the city in years, prefers to keep his distance if he can, but the crowd in the streets sweeps the two of them up and ushers them deeper into the city. The sights and smells quickly overtake him, and he can feel his hands shaking. Footsteps clatter and bounce off the buildings, trapping him in an endless loop of louder and louder noises. The smell of dirt and sewage and  _ sweat _ makes him choke, and his brain's only instinct is to  _ run _ . He doesn’t get the chance, a hand sliding into his and squeezing gently. Jaskier presses in close to him, lavender trickling in to overtake the other smells, and Geralt feels a swell of relief and gratitude in his chest. He keeps hold of Jaskier’s hand lightly, his own fingers tracing the callouses from Jaskier’s lute and slipping to swirl along the embroidered edge of Jaskier’s doublet. His mind quiets slowly, adjusting to the onslaught of senses, and by the time Jaskier finds the tailor Geralt can look around without his hands shaking. 

The odor of fabric dyes is sharp as they step into the tailors shop, Geralt ducking through the doorframe. He isn’t going to hit it, but the movement is habit and he’s never been able to stop himself. Immediately Geralt is drawn in by all of the color; rich blues and greens, reds and oranges and  _ yellow. _ The color reminds him of celandine, the soft buttery shade of a very useful flower, and he finds himself gravitating toward it. It’s something he would never wear, too flashy, but Jaskier has a doublet almost the exact same color and Geralt finds it comforting. Jaskier slips from his side while he silently admires the different colors, stopping by a burnished orange bolt of fabric and reaching to feel. The cloth is buttery soft under his fingers, and Jaskier finds him there, holding a corner of the cloth and marveling.

“Geralt? The tailor needs your measurements.” Geralt looks up, nostrils flaring before he relaxes and nods, following Jaskier to the back where a man waits, glasses perched on his nose and measuring cord draped over one arm. A small girl, no older than 8 stands in the corner, watching as Geralt removes his armor and shirt and stands patiently while he’s moved and measured. Jaskier stands close, watching their things while the man mutters numbers and the girl scribbles them down. Once he’s released from the tailor’s scrutiny he dresses quickly, uncomfortable at being exposed and tired of smelling the wary edge of fear the little girl has. His scars are terrible, he knows, and they crisscross every inch of him, proof of what he’s fought, and how inhuman he truly is. Any number of his wounds should have been fatal, but he was still here, years later. “So, done in a couple days?”

“You’re sure you want this cotton? It isn’t anything as lovely as the silk.”

“Cotton will do fine.” Jaskier insists politely, glancing at Geralt and nodding his head toward the door. Geralt ducks out while Jaskier barters, knowing his presence can sour even the friendliest of people. Jaskier insists it isn’t the case, but Geralt has read people for as long as he can remember and he isn’t so easily swayed. Jaskier comes out a few minutes later, whistling merrily and smiling at Geralt. “C’mon wolf, we’d best find somewhere to stay tonight.”

“In town?”

“You’d rather stay in the forest?” Jaskier’s tone is teasing, but his expression is earnest and Geralt swallows hard. 

“Would that bother you?” 

“Never.” Jaskier holds out his hand, and Geralt goes to take it before realizing he’s being handed something. Jaskier presses a small scrap of fabric into his hand, just a small square of silk, but it's the bright, smoky orange he was looking at and Geralt latches onto it immediately. He worries the fabric between his fingers, and though he wants nothing more than to go back and stay in the forest until the clothes are done, they’d been on the road a while and… Jaskier deserved to stay in a nice inn for at least a night or two. The inn in the other town had been sufficient, but every so often he liked to see Jaskier flourish, laying among nice sheets and hunkered at a table that didn’t wobble. Instead of heading out of the city like he wants he heads deeper, following the scent of ale and sweat until he comes across the inn. 

Jaskier ducks inside to get a room and inquire about playing for their board while Geralt goes to stable Roach, petting down the length of her neck and grunting when she headbutts his chest. “Rude.”

He chides her softly, dodging another headbutt and shaking his head as he slips the saddle from her back. Once he’s gotten her brushed down and spoiled her sufficiently with a few sugar cubes he leaves her to relax and heads back for the inn. He must have taken longer than he expected, because by the time that he gets back Jaskier is launching into a spirited rendition of ‘Toss A Coin’ and Geralt ducks into the shadows to avoid people noticing him. He doesn’t know which room is theirs, so he settles himself in a corner and pinches at his silk scrap as he settles in to watch Jaskier perform. For as much as he grumbles, his voice is lovely and having heard many of his songs come to life's a treat in itself. Not the process, where Jaskier hums or croons the same words over and over again while trying to figure out his melody, but this. Jaskier’s eyes bright, smile tugging at his lips and threatening to ruin the vowel he’s drawn out. The crowd reacts to him much better than when they’d first met in Posada, swaying and clapping along to his songs and crowing lyrics when Jaskier pauses to let them interact.

He works the crowd as deftly as Geralt wields a sword, but everytime that Jaskier’s eyes meet his, the look is only for him, a look of longing and love and contentment. If anyone notices the change in his demeanor they don’t say anything, just beg him for another song and cheer when he aquiesces. Sometime in Jaskier’s performance he’s brought an ale, and though he sips at it he can’t bring himself to drink much. Something in him makes him hold off, keeps his eyes firmly on the way the candlelight and sunlight mix to dance over the silk of Jaskier’s doublet. 

He doesn’t want to leave, to risk missing anything else, but more and more people are crowding into the inn after hearing about Jaskier’s performance. The scrap of fabric in his hands helps, but it’s beginning to fray at the edges from his constant touching and Geralt slips up the stairs before he’s boxed in by too many bodies. He follows his nose as best he can, opening the last door on the left to find Jaskier’s things tucked neatly under the table. Geralt goes about setting the room up the way they’re used to, shedding his armor and draping the pieces over a chair before getting the fire going in the hearth. It’s warm in the room already, but the night brings a chill quickly and he doesn’t want Jaskier to be cold when he finally comes up. Geralt uses his time alone to prepare more potions, fingers stained yellow by the celandine petals.

It takes him less time than he was expecting to finish up, and the idleness of his hands… bothers him. He would sharpen his swords, but he’d just done it and didn’t feel inclined to sharpen an already razor sharp blade. Instead he moves closer to the fire and tucks himself into a kneeling position, closing his eyes and letting out a slow, even breath. He slips into his meditation as easily as one would breathe, letting his senses drift while his mind slows to honey around him. There’s something within the meditative calm that’s always called to him, drawn him deeper than needed and kept him. Nurtured some part of him that wanted nothing more than to disappear. He doesn’t know how long he drifts until the door creaks open behind him, quiet footsteps padding across the wood floor. He can tell it’s Jaskier instantly, so he chooses not to move, instead bowing his head a bit lower and drifting once again.

The sound of Jaskier behind him is a gentle distraction, one he can easily tune out as he goes about putting his lute away and slipping out of his doublet and boots. He hears Jaskier come closer, can feel breath on the back of his neck an instant before gentle fingers brush his hair out of the way and soft kisses are left on the exposed flesh. The feeling sends a warm flush through him, and he rumbles low in his chest as Jaskier trails kisses down his shoulder. A hand comes up around him, tugging at the ties of the chemise as he uses the extra wiggle room to leave more kisses across Geralt’s exposed skin. Jaskier is warm against his back, pressed up close as his heat bleeds through the silk of his shirt, and Geralt shivers when teeth scrape lightly across his skin. Hands roam over his front, petting at his stomach and tugging so that silk slides over his skin. He shakes involuntarily with the sensation, and Jaskier sidles a bit closer. 

“Jask…” 

He follows the path of Jaskier’s lips, skin tingling as Jaskier lazily moves back up until he can kiss behind Geralt’s ear. His breath is hot, sending shivers across his skin, and Jaskier noses at the soft spot where his jaw meets his neck. “Yes, darling?”

“I…” Geralt, for the thousandth time in his life, is lost for words, but Jaskier laughs softly in his ear, voice husky. 

“I’ve got you.” Heat rushes up his spine and pools in his stomach, and even the barest shift of Jaskier behind him has his fingers twitching with the urge to touch. Jaskier’s lips slide over his skin and Geralt’s head arches to the side, baring more of his neck for Jaskier to peruse. His lips are soft and warm, and Gaskier gasps when Jaskier bites, tongue sweeping over the skin to soothe any pain. Jaskier’s hands wander, one pressing against Geralt’s chest to keep him in place while the other slides down, fingers dancing along the inside of Geralt’s thighs. He jerks in Jaskier’s arms at the first teasing touch, and Jaskier croons against his skin, smoothing a hand over Geralt’s thigh and tugging until his legs are spread wider and he’s leaning heavily back against Jaskier. The touches along his thigh and the obscene spread of his legs has heat pouring through him, and he’s hard in his pants and the feeling is rapidly growing uncomfortable. He faintly hears himself whining Jaskier’s name, but Jaskier takes pity on him and tugs his pants open, hand dipping inside. Jaskier takes Geralt firmly in hand, moving with the witcher as he moans, arching up into the touch. Jaskier frees him from the confines of his pants and he sighs at the relief and feeling of Jaskier’s fingers firmly wrapped around his cock. Jaskier’s other arm is an iron band around him, keeping the two of them pressed together wherever they can. He should feel trapped, should fight out of Jaskier’s grip, but Jaskier strokes him slowly, wrist twisting, and Geralt shudders in his arms. 

“Beautiful. Absolutely gorgeous, love. Let me hear you?” Geralt’s cheeks flame, but there’s nowhere for him to hide, trapped between Jaskier’s hand and his very nice chest. Jaskier rubs a thumb over the head of Geralt’s cock, spreading a bead of precome, and Geralt  _ whimpers _ , hips jerking as Jaskier’s hand speeds up. “You like wearing it, don’t you?”

“What?” His mind is still slow, half out of his meditation and addled by lust, and he isn’t quite sure what Jaskier means. Jaskier’s hand on his chest grabs a fistful of silk, and Geralt understands. His hips jerk, cock twitching in Jaskier’s hand as Jaskier pays close attention to the head. “Yes-yes-”

“Tell me why.” Jaskier’s voice is saccharine in his ears, and Geralt can feel the vibrations against his back. It’s near impossible for Geralt to think about what he wants to say, pleasure rapidly building in his gut, but Jaskier’s hand slows down, giving him a chance and making him growl at the same time. The bard's voice is dangerous this time, ragged and broken with lust. “I’m waiting, Geralt.”

“It’s- it smells like you, makes  _ me _ smell like you-” 

“Territorial beast.” Jaskier’s voice is fond, lovingly so, and that makes Geralt’s stomach flop. He seems pleased enough by the answer though, because his hand speeds up and Geralt sees stars behind his eyelids. He’s much closer than he’d like to admit, but Jaskier is so close to him and he knows exactly how to push him toward the edge. Geralt turns his head, straining a bit to try and catch Jaskier’s lips in a kiss. Jaskier shifts behind him, going up higher on his knees, and Geralt gasps into Jaskiers mouth when he feels Jaskier’s cock brush against the swell of his ass. He pushes his hips back, grinding against Jaskier and moaning when Jaskier’s fingers tighten around him and jerk him faster. Jaskier laps into his mouth, tasting the sweet moans that Geralt lets out now that he’s somewhat muffled.

Geralt can feel his stomach tightening, release so close, and Jaskier swipes a thumb over the head, over and over until Geralt is sobbing against his mouth and trembling in his arms. “Come for me, sweetheart.”

The simple command is what finally undoes Geralt, and he moans Jaskier’s name as he tips over the edge, hips jerking as he comes messily onto the floor in front of him. He should care more about the mess- really he should, but Jaskier strokes him through his release and doesn’t let up until Geralt is whining and shifting his hips back to get away from the sensation. He sags back into Jaskier’s arms as the bard kisses his hair, and he can feel Jaskier, hard against his backside. Geralt shifts his hips, slowly at first, and when Jaskier puffs out a soft moan he grinds down harder. Geralt feels fingers dig into his hip, and he shifts so that he can look at Jaskier better. The bard’s eyes are dark with lust, pupils blown wide, and he sees Jaskier’s eyes flick down to his lips more than once. 

“Stand up.” Geralt’s voice is soft, but Jaskier jerks up to his feet as if burned. Geralt turns fully, back to the hearth, and uses a hand on Jaskier’s hip to steady him. His other hand works at the ties of Jaskier’s pants, and he pulls Jaskier’s cock free, glancing up. “I love being yours, Jaskier. More than you could know.”

He can tell that Jaskier wants to say something, some flowery words to tell him much the same, but his words catch in his throat when Geralt tips forward and takes the head of Jaskier’s cock into his mouth. One of Jaskier’s hands flies into his hair immediately, gripping the strands tight, and Geralt bobs his head pointedly. He enjoys the taste of Jaskier on his tongue, taking the man deeper as he listens to Jaskier moan. Geralt closes his eyes, hands coming up to gently rest against Jaskier’s thighs. He can feel Jaskier’s thighs twitching under his palms, and he presses forward, relaxing as Jaskier’s cock slides into his throat and his nose presses against the soft skin of Jaskier’s abdomen. The noise that Jaskier lets out is a broken whine, and his hips twitch of their own accord. One of Geralt’s hands quickly slides to grip Jaskier’s ass, urging him forward, and Jaskier swears above him.

“Geralt- you’re sure?” Geralt’s eyes fly open and he glares up at Jaskier, swallowing pointedly around him. Jaskier’s cock twitches in his mouth as their eyes meet, and Jaskier lets out a shuddering breath before he pulls back. He thrusts back in quickly and watches eagerly, as if afraid to miss a thing. Geralt sinks into the feeling of Jaskier using his mouth, closing his eyes and moaning as he does his best to keep up with Jaskier’s sharp, jerky thrusts. Normally he’d have more time to enjoy, to let Jaskier use his mouth to tease himself, but Jaskier is painfully hard on his tongue and Geralt knows he’s close. The next time that Jaskier pulls back Geralt flicks his tongue against the slit, drawing a sweet noise from Jaskier’s mouth and stealing his breath when Jaskier shoves in, hips stuttering. Geralt pulls back, intent, and he swirls his tongue around the head until Jaskier’s grip tightens painfully in his hair and he’s held in place as Jaskier’s hips shove forward. The roughness makes his own cock twitch and he drops a hand to palm himself lazily. Jaskier pulls back halfway, murmuring Geralt’s name to get his attention. Geralt looks up to show he's listening, and Jaskier's look sends heat searing through his nerves. “Breathe, love.” 

Geralt knows that warning better than any other, and he pulls in a deep breath on command, head tilting back a bit as Jaskier thrusts in hard, grinding against his face as he comes down Geralt’s throat. Geralt swallows around him reflexively, blinking rapidly as tears gather in his eyes as Jaskier stays pressed firmly into his throat. Geralt relaxes his jaw a bit more, ignoring the way his lungs are beginning to pinch with the need to breathe as Jaskier grinds into his mouth, moaning and fingers curling in Geralt’s hair. Eventually Geralt taps twice against Jaskier’s thigh and Jaskier pulls out, panting and jerkily petting at Geralt's hair. Geralt leans into the touch, a raspy purr kicking up in his throat. He hears Jaskier drop to his knees, still breathing hard, and then Jaskier is kissing him regardless of how messy he currently is. Geralt melts into the soft, reverent touches as Jaskier pets over his chest and cups the back of his neck with a hand. Jaskier uses a gentle press to tilt Geralt's head a bit, and Geralt can't help the small moan at the way it feels. Geralt feels drunk off of the attention Jaskier lavishes on him in the afterglow of his orgasm, and he gasps, grinding into his own hand when Jaskier's nails scratch at the base of his skull. 

"Wanna come?" Geralt considers it briefly, ready to say no, but Jaskier's hand is warm as he guides Geralf into taking himself in hand. Jaskier's fingers overlap his, helping, and Geralt whines as he works himself rapidly into a second orgasm. This one isn't as intense as the first, but warmth rushes through Geralt and makes his toes curl as he groans softly against Jaskier's lips. "That's it, so good for me love. Take me so well, so pretty for me."

The compliments make his cheeks flush and he ducks his head automatically. Jaskier catches his chin with his free hand, not letting Geralt hide as he kisses him softly before pulling back to smile. Geralt squints at him then, voice cracking when he speaks. "What?"

"Mmm nothing, just wondering what else I could do with you wearing this shirt."

"Anything." The reply is so simple, but Geralt's pupils are blown and Jaskier can tell he's tapped into some other part of Geralt, some side aimed to please. 

"Mmm, it's a good thing we've this room for the next couple days, then. Wonder how good you'd look in my lap."

It's meant more as a rhetorical, but the whine that shakes from Geralt's throat is needy and Jaskier knows these next couple of days are going to be very, very busy indeed.


End file.
